The Numidiad: Part II
Valenwood The towering graht-oak lumbers through the clearing, smaller trees crowding back to make room. Its branches shake angrily in the wind, and the chittering screams of the Bosmer in its branches race through the air. Behind it, shadowy shapes flit through the dark forest. Aside from the creaking wood of the graht-oak, the unearthly cries of the angered elves, and occasional deep, heavy thuds of something impossibly heavy striking the earth, the forest is deathly silent. Animals have never found perfectly safe haven in Valenwood, but their utter absence is an event never before heard in living memory. Standing sharply out among the dark browns and rich greens of the forest, a blindingly bright brass tower flashes among the forest. It crashes through the smaller growth, pausing only to batter resilient trees out of its way. It charges after the graht-oak, missiles and magic peppering its skin. A fist like the hammer of a god crashes into the graht-oak’s trunk, shaking branches and bodies out of the crown. An eerie keening light pierces the tree’s canopy in several places. Numidium strikes the tree several more times, ripping limbs and vast swaths of foliage off of it and discarding them. The light vanishes suddenly, and strange howls and roars echo through the vale. Wave after wave of creature rush from the graht-oak. The towering brass walker kicks and swings at them, but the horde manages to dodge. Mostly. Yipping and screeching, the varied animals nip and climb the metal goliath. Neither side is able to significantly damage the other, and though beasts are flung off with every movement, the wild horde continues to pile onto the Dwarven construct. Finally, it shakes some free and charges vigorously into the forest. Behind it, the alien creatures disperse and the graht-oak lies toppled on the forest floor. Argonia Deep in the dark and twisted maze of the Black Marsh, a wind attempts to stir through the thickly-grown trees. It fails to move more than a few leaves. Dew drips from the foliage, and sap runs like tears down the bark of trees. These are no ordinary trees, however, if anything in the Marsh could be called ordinary. There is an aura of ancient malice surrounding them, and they exude a strong sense of forbiddance upon any who have the misfortune to stray near. These are no common marsh trees, no; these are the Hist. Lizards form lines through the area, queued to come forward and drink of the sap. As they wait, they eat whatever is at hand, leaves, insects, and animals crawling or swimming through the mud. The area has been largely stripped bare of plant life, and alongside the lines scamper other of the lizardfolk bringing food from farther away. The lines progress slowly, but steadily. At the base of the trees lie those who have already drunk of the sap. They grow emaciated, their bodies elongating visibly, their bones moving according to the Hist’s desire. When the Hist have finished with each, the reptile stands to its feet. The newly-shaped creature’s eyes are glassy, and it moves uncertainly at first. Soon enough, however, it lopes off into the foliage and vanishes. Smoke and screams rise from the little village, though the screams never last long. On the black star-studded horizon, the dark and forbidding wall of the Black Marsh looms angrily, and a steady tide of the reptilian denizens streams westward. Argonians were no strange sights in Cyrodiil’s Blackwood, but these were no common Argonian travelers. The shortest of them stood two or more heads higher than the villagers, their scales were flat black, and they were significantly more musclebound than those to which the residents had become accustomed. Furthermore, their faces were utterly different, though none could say how exactly. Where groups of survivors lingered, inevitably one whispered that these must be the rumored Naga. The whispers lasted as long as the whisperers; that is to say, not long at all. The column of Marsh-monsters soon ran westward again, and yet more ruin and sorrow joined the silent desolation of the eastern wood. Hammerfell Hammerfell’s coastal cities lie sundered and smoking, their streets filled with debris and bodies. Only the island city of Stros M’Kai remains untouched, separated from the mainland by depths Numidium elected not to cross. Inland, deep into the wastes of the Alik’r Desert, Redguard life is stirring. As the sand finally subsides, the cloud of the vicious sandstorm still visible in the distance, a half-buried door creaks open. A form wrapped in cloth peers out. It looks around and, apparently satisfied, opens the door fully. The figure drags a set of wooden poles out from the shadowy recesses and begins assembling them into a sand-fly. A column of Redguards from all walks of life; warriors, craftsmen, families and even their livestock winds northward from Taneth. The city lays in ruins behind them, the latest in a string of coastal attacks from the Septim machine. Scouts ride out ahead of the column, seeking out little-used landmarks of the Alik’r Desert. Several days’ journey for the column finally ends when a scout rushes to the main body. He points them in the direction of the door and sand-fly, and elated, they strike out. Upon arrival, the cloth-wrapped watchers usher everyone inside, and shut the door behind them. The gleaming brassy door gradually vanishes beneath the ever-shifting sands. Summerset As the sun breaks over the eastern horizon, its rays fall on a once-fair island since ravaged by wanton destruction. Mangled colors lie strewn over the landscape like shards of a stained glass window, and painfully vivid colors jut at angles out of the sculpted ground riven by furrows and craters. In curious disparity with the ruin, scattered at random among the broken isle are counties untouched by the chaos around them. The occasional detachment of elven mages roam the landscape, escorting noncombatants to the ferry-ports of the minor sister. Some pause among the chaos, and under their attention the shards of broken color flow back into the ground, which returns reluctantly to the carefully-designed shape generations of elves had given it. Their efforts do little to reverse the catastrophe inflicted upon their soil, but even this slight restoration brings some hope to the elves. On the coast, the latest in the seemingly incessant rash of Maormeri sea-brigades circles the Walking Brass Tower. It stands up to its waist in the sea, rebuffing magical blasts and crushing any vessels so unfortunate as to come within its reach. Sea serpents and their riders dart among the fray, pelting the machine with spells and seeking to distract it from the more powerful weapons brought to bear by the raiding ships. Frost coats the metal skin of the golem even as the sea boils into steam around it and flashes of lightning skitter across its skin and the water around it. Its arms blur at intervals, and spells thought to have struck home fizzle short or careen at angles to their original course. The ocean flickers around it, seemingly moving at odds with the rest of the sea. Waves jerk to a stop, or pass through at frightening speeds. Flotsam drifting close to the construct disintegrates spontaneously, or is twisted and cut upon itself and changes form at sharp and sudden intervals. On the shore, a glimmering spire rises out of the ground, gleaming in the sun’s light, throwing aloft a pillar of spell-wrought energy. The clouds part around the beam, the shining lance evaporating any wisps that stray too close to it. At long intervals, the spire launches a blistering barrage of energy towards Septim’s metal warrior. Most of the barrage strikes home, though some land among the waves or Maormeri ships. Numidium glows ruddy under the onslaught, and the intense heat boils the sea around it. Metal runs like sweat down its form, and its limbs slow and bind at times. The ever-present tumult of Time surrounding the giant shows a flicker-flurry of motion, and metal streams into shaped order and fractured chaos alike. After the latest spell-strike ceases, the sea-mist clears to reveal the Maormeri brigade streaming smoke with their hulls holed and rigging ragged and torn; Numidium’s rapid strikes during the blinding chaos destroyed several ships and more were sailing low in the water. The fracturing of Time around Numidium grows stronger still, and in a blur it charges to shore and east across the Isles, and vanishes out of sight. Its path is littered with burned and broken bodies, buildings, and strewn rubble. Behind it, tired elves stolidly resume their tasks. Category:The Numidiad Category:Myrrlyn